


And the shadows they burn dark

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, 6000 Years of Pining, 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Anxiety, Crowley to the rescue, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gardens & Gardening, Hurt/Comfort, I had to steal that tag it's the best, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Panic Attack, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sickfic, Slow Burn, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tea and Sympathy, cw: gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: 5+1 or Five times Crowley comforted Aziraphale and one time Aziraphale comforted his CrowleyAll the times they've crossed paths throughout the centuries they've been there for one another in some way or another. Or 5 ways Crowley shows his love for Aziraphale through his actions and one way Aziraphale declares his love for Crowley.





	1. Imagine

_9 December 1980  
3 am  
New York City _

 

Aziraphale stands out of view of the slowly dissipating crowd outside the Dakota Building. He has been standing there for some time; keeping watch, reminiscent of his duty in the Garden.

He’s never really seen the need for sleep, but right now he is exhausted down to the marrow of his very existence and wants to sleep for days, weeks, months. A vague voice in the back of his mind wonders if this is why Crowley takes so enthusiastically to sleeping, sometimes even for decades; to avoid whatever it was he has been running from for so long. For the moment, he pushes it away for the more pertinent matters in front of him.

Not only is he tired, he is angry. No, he is _furious._

He wants to rend his garments and scream in Her face, make her take it back, to change it, rewind the past twelve hours. He wants to stop time and shout until he is hoarse and can speak no more. 

_Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone 1_

He’s thought, often enough, that America is the embodiment of both heaven and hell; of all that is good and bad in the world. He’s not quite sure he likes it. He wonders how worse or much better it could be. 

_Imagine_ , indeed.

He has often questioned (to himself) why. And while he knows why, it most certainly does not help right now to believe in the bloody great and _ineffable_ plan. Right now, the ineffable plan could _fuck_ right off. 

_I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong 2._

Aziraphale sighs heavily, pulling his coat more tightly around his body. It is absolutely freezing, and his corporeal body is cold. He has long lost the feeling in his toes, so he moves around a bit to try to regain feeling in his extremities. He finds himself standing in front of a pool of blood, now nearly dry.

In the end, as he is an angel, he does what he knows how to do best; he closes his eyes, bows his head, and prays for the little boy who will never know his father. He prays for the soul of the dearly departed as tears course down his face. He prays until both prayers and tears are answered in a torrent of rain, gushing down from the heavens. He accepts it for what it is, a reminder of his own covenant.

Aziraphale raises his head heavenward, in hopes of being cleansed by the weather, but all he can see are feathers; dark, ebony feathers protecting him from the sudden and icy torrential downpour. _Crowley._

Crowley holds his wing up above the angel, protecting him, until the rain fades to a soft drizzle and as fast as it began. They both watch in silence as the drizzle changes over then to a light flurry of snow. 

Once again that evening, Aziraphale is reminded of the garden, only it was he who sheltered Crowley. Perhaps they have come full circle now, but that is a thought for another place and time. The angel watches, eyes still shining with unshed tears, as the demon’s wings slip back to the ethereal plane with nary a sound; merely a soft flutter only audible to them both. 

Crowley remains quiet, almost as if he is terrified to break the silence. Aziraphale wonders if he can feel the anger and sadness radiating from within his heart; he’s broadcasting it on such a high frequency- it’s both intoxicating and frightening at the same time. 

Shivering, the angel hunches his shoulders to as if to ward off the cold and stares back down at the ground. After a few minutes of silence, Aziraphale feels Crowley move, as he reaches out to take his hand in his own. It’s shocking to feel that the demon’s hand is warmer than his.

“Come on Angel. I’ll buy you a drink,” Crowley says softly. The snowflakes dance around them, and scatter across the pavement until the stain is hidden from view. 

Only after the blood is no longer visible, Aziraphale nods and allows himself to be slowly led away to somewhere warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,2 'Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone'- WH Auden
> 
>  
> 
> I want to thank everyone for their thoughtful comments and constructive criticism on this chapter. I love how thoughtful and kind everyone in the fandom is!


	2. Unwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale isn't very well. Crowley gives him just what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gotten a bit carried away with this chapter!

_Soho  
At some point before the Anti-Christ’s 11th birthday_

Aziraphale knew he was different from all of the other angels. For one, he had spent a rather long time on Earth and was quite fond of humans, not to mention, books, excellent food and fine wine. In addition, he saw no problem in conducting minor miracles to make their lives a bit easier. And he wasn’t a stranger in doing them for himself (or for Crowley), but he certainly wasn’t going to mention that at this particular moment. Not while Gabriel was detailing all of the times he had recently done do. _Rudely_ , Aziraphale thought, not for the first time ever. At least Gabriel had come alone this time. 

He had nothing to say in his defence, so he just stood and took it as the archangel carried on reading from his scroll, listing out every single last time he had performed a minor miracle. He knew there was no point in arguing when Gabriel got a bee in his bonnet like this. Last time the archangel had told him to _‘shut the fuck up,’_ when he dared speak at all. So, instead, Aziraphale studied the floor of his book shop as if it held the answers to the universe.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Gabriel finally asked.

Nothing other than to call you a very rude name, Aziraphale thought to himself, again not for the first time ever.

“No,” he said, resigned to whatever fate that had been conjured up this time. The last time, the archangel and his cronies had made off with piles of books, not realising that they were the books he did actually sell to humans, so no harm done. He and Crowley had laughed about it over glasses of some fine scotch later that very evening.

Gabriel grinned. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear that your punishment will make you feel like you’re even more a part of the _human_ race that you love oh so much.” Gabriel pulled a face on the word human, and Aziraphale felt a wave of dread wash over him, rising up from his stomach. He bit hard down on his lower lip and waited, fingers twisting around the chain of his pocket watch.

“Perhaps this will make you reconsider the next time you want to miracle a mug of cocoa back to the right temperature,” Gabriel spat in disgust.

With what could only be considered a gleeful, maniacal laugh, the archangel snapped his fingers, and with a flash of brilliant, white light he was gone.

Aziraphale looked around his book shop trying to figure out what exactly had occurred. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. All of the books were exactly as they had been left. He walked to his back room to see if something had been disrupted and felt a change within his own corporeal body. He suddenly felt very hot and a bit lightheaded. His vision swam and he paused, swaying in the doorway, and without warning sneezed violently. He immediately knew what fate had been handed out.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he muttered to himself.

 

\---------

 

Over the next few hours, Aziraphale felt increasingly worse. He couldn’t breathe, his head ached something fierce; nor could he keep from coughing and sneezing what seemed like every five minutes. He had managed to make himself a pot of tea before his headache became rather excruciating and had got himself changed into tartan patterned bedclothes and matching robe. He didn’t often sleep; he didn’t particularly care for it nearly as much as Crowley, but he knew enough about humans and human nature to know that spending the next few days in his waistcoat and trousers wouldn’t be altogether too comfortable.

He sank down on his couch with his tea and his treasured copy of Hamlet. Not because it was from the Bard himself; no, it had been a present from Crowley, some time after he had made the play a roaring success. He hoped it might offer comfort, but his headache was so terribly painful, he finally put the book to the side and closed his eyes.

Aziraphale dreamt; strange fever dreams which left him confused and longing; for what he was not sure. He dreamt of heaven and of Eden, and a serpent turned man with long, red hair, which felt like spun silk as he let it cascade through his fingers.

He woke at some point and was terribly cold, although his skin was clammy and hot. Shivering, he grabbed the blanket that he kept for when Crowley was feeling the biting cold of winter. He pulled it around him and could smell the demon’s scent woven into its fabric, as if it were a part of his very essence. He could smell it even through his terribly blocked nose; the smell of wood smoke, Crowley’s expensive cologne and something that was there just in the back of his mind. Something ancient. With a word on his lips, he fell into another tumultuous series of fever dreams.

 

 

**24 hours later**

 

Crowley was bored. He’d done a bit of tempting, caused a traffic jam around Westminster just as the MP’s were meant to be taking a vote, and brought down the WiFi in every Starbucks in London. While it was a satisfactory morning, it wasn’t any fun if he didn’t share his accomplishments with someone. He had no desire to pop _downstairs_ and regale any of the lesser demons. Instead, he got into the Bentley and headed for Soho.

When he arrived, he found the bookshop closed. This wasn’t terribly out of the ordinary; Aziraphale opened and closed the bookshop on a whim, but the shop was usually open late on a Tuesday morning. Crowley frowned and miracled the door open, closing it quietly behind him.

The shop was silent, and it held an undercurrent of heavenly power, lurking in the dust motes. Not Aziraphale’s; that felt entirely different. It felt like love. This felt like the complete opposite of that. The demon licked the air, trying to discern what had happened. It only took a moment for the name of the archangel Gabriel to appear in his mind. (Well, he immediately thought _wanker_ , but still. Semantics). He could feel Aziraphale’s presence nearby, and knew he was alone. Cautiously, Crowley headed for the small flat above the shop. He was not entirely prepared for what he found.

Aziraphale was asleep for starters. He was laying on his side on his couch, curls damp and askew. The colour was high on his cheeks, and the tip of his nose was pink. On the table in front of him was a mug full of dry tea leaves, an empty box of tissues, and his reading glasses. A dogeared, well-read book was beside him on the couch, as if the angel had merely fallen asleep reading. A soft, congested snore escaped from the angel, and Crowley snorted with laughter.

The laughter was loud enough to rouse Aziraphale. He woke slowly, as if emerging into treacle. He tried to sniff, but his nasal passages were still entirely blocked. Blinking, he ran a hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale croaked hoarsely, trying to sit up. He took a breath and regretted it as he began to cough, a terrible barking sound more appropriately found coming from a seal.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, confused. He waved a hand and a glass of water appeared which he handed it over. “Here, drink this. Slowly.”

Aziraphale grasped the glass of water as if it was an oasis and he was parched and dying in the desert. He drank it down, wincing, finding his throat sore. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley refilled the glass and Aziraphale sank back onto the couch with it, closing his eyes for a moment. His head felt like it was filled with cement and it made him feel dizzy. After a moment, he felt his equilibrium restored and took another sip of water before placing it down. He could feel a prickling sensation within his sinuses, and he began to search his pockets. It was futile, so instead he curled in on himself as his face crumpled. He hurriedly turned away from Crowley as he sneezed several times in quick succession. He then mumbled something under his breath that Crowley couldn’t quite discern. 

When the angel uncurled himself, he found Crowley watching him, but he couldn’t read his expression. He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his robe, making a distasteful grimace. When he looked up again, Crowley was holding out a white square of fabric toward him.

“You dropped it on the floor,” Crowley said to the unasked question.

Aziraphale, exhausted despite his nap, just nodded before attempting to blow his nose. He then sighed heavily, as if it had taken all of his energy reserves and closed his eyes. He felt the sofa shift, as Crowley sat down next to him.

“What happened, Angel? Are you ill?”

“Gabriel has saddled me with a cold. It’s my punishment. Too many minor miracles, apparently,” Aziraphale replied, his voice congested. He tried to sniff again and failed, the bridge of his nose wrinkling.

“Gabriel’ssss a wanker,” Crowley hissed viciously. He wanted to tear the archangel limb from limb. Aziraphale didn’t deserve this, not over keeping some cocoa warm, for G-, Sa-, oh for _someone’s_ sake! It sounded like the twat of an archangel was taking lessons from someone on his side. He had a fairly good idea who that might be, too.

Aziraphale laughed for the first time in nearly two days, which just led to another vicious spasm of coughing, leaving him gasping for air. Crowley handed him the glass of water and watched as the angel slowly sipped the cool liquid. He frowned as Aziraphale winced in pain and found that he had to look away. 

Crowley studied the detritus left on the coffee table. He gestured to the mug with the tea leaves. “What the _heaven_ is that?”

“I tried to miracle myself a cup of tea, despite everything. That’s all I was able to manage. I think it must be the fever. I feel rather muddled,” Aziraphale said weakly, rubbing his forehead. He put the empty glass down and shivered. 

Crowley picked up the mug, and its contents immediately became a steaming cup of tea. He carefully placed it in the angel’s hands.

“Oh, thank you Crowley!” Aziraphale looked like had just been handed a trunk full of rare first edition books, rather than a cup of tea with copious amounts of honey and a splash of whiskey. He took a sip and smiled gratefully at the demon. The liquid soothed his raw and aching throat almost immediately.

Crowley avoided Aziraphale’s gaze and miracled himself a mug of coffee. It somehow didn’t feel right to break out the booze if he wasn’t going to be able to drink himself silly with his angel. They sat quietly for a bit, each drinking their beverages. That was the one good thing about knowing someone for millennia; you didn’t have to try to fill the silences with inane conversation. 

Aziraphale broke the silence by suddenly putting his mug down and sneezing, burying his face within his handkerchief. He coughed weakly, mumbling to himself again. “Apologies, my dear,” the angel said softly, almost as an afterthought.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out exactly what he had been saying. He wished he had been paying closer attention instead of being lost in his own thoughts. Aziraphale looked flushed, but he decided, that was probably the fever. He shrugged in response and began to tell the angel about his morning of tempting, trying to bring another smile to his angelic face.

Aziraphale did enjoy hearing about Crowley’s temptations, as they never seemed to hurt anyone, just merely caused a bit of mischief. He couldn’t help but smile on hearing about how the demon had thwarted politicians this morning, as he sipped his tea. He began to feel the tiniest bit better for the first time since Gabriel had given him this wretched illness.

“What’s it like?” Crowley asked abruptly. 

“What’s what like?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Being ill.”

Aziraphale chuckled ruefully. “It’s horrible. I can’t breathe through my nose, my head is pounding, and I’m both hot and cold at the same time. Must be from one of your lot,” he said, shivering once more. He took a sip of his tea, his teeth clanking against the porcelain. He was, again, suddenly freezing. 

Crowley frowned, thinking back to all of the times that Aziraphale made sure he was warm when it was the midst of winter and snow covered the city of London, or when it was damp and rainy and he just wanted to hibernate for months and then wake to feel the sun again. He then rose and moved so he was standing in front of the angel. “Come on, budge up,” he said gesturing.

Confused, he did as he was asked and Aziraphale moved further down the couch, allowing the demon to sit where he had been. Crowley then put an arm around the angel and gently pulled him down, so that he was laying against him and pulled the blanket back around him. 

Aziraphale hummed in contentment as he felt Crowley’s long fingers worked their way into his hair. He rubbed and circled his fingers gently, and the angel could slowly feel the pounding in his temples receding. He had almost relaxed entirely, when his sinuses had other ideas. He reached for the now miraculously full tissue box before sneezing harshly.

Crowley winced; that just sounded painful. And then in that moment, he finally realised what Aziraphale had been muttering. For someone's sake, he was an idiot! Of course the angel would want to be blessed- he was an angel! He shook his head in disbelief, wondering why his angel had been so quiet about it. It wasn’t like he was showering himself in holy water. Even after all these years, even while clearly terribly unwell, Aziraphale was trying to protect him. From what, he wasn’t sure.

Well, there was clearly only one thing he could do.

“Bless you, Angel,” Crowley said softly.

Aziraphale turned his head to look at him, puzzled. Crowley shrugged. The rules had never applied when and where the angel was concerned. And, if any other angel or demon were to just show up right now, they’d see that Crowley had a lapful of Aziraphale, which was probably a lot worse than a blessing, which in this case, didn’t really mean what it had meant to begin with. In the beginning that is.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. He smiled fondly at Crowley.

“Yeah, well don’t think I’ll make a habit of it,” Crowley grumbled. 

“Oh, no of course not, dear.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s leg before settling back down, head in his lap. He closed his eyes.

Crowley picked Aziraphale’s book, turning it over in the hand that wasn’t still carding through the angel’s soft blonde curls. He was shocked to see it was an ancient copy of Hamlet, one that he himself had given to the angel. The demon was glad that Aziraphale couldn’t see the look on his face; a mixture of love and wonder. He had no idea that his angel had kept it for so long. 

“You know I really only like,” Crowley began.

“The funny ones; yes, I know dear,” Aziraphale said, his voice nearly gone. He coughed pitifully and snuggled down, pulling the blanket a bit tighter around himself.

Crowley turned to the bookmarked page and began to read aloud, his fingers still running through Aziraphale’s hair.


	3. Mary, Mary quite contrary- How does your garden grow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale doesn't have a terribly green thumb.

_The Dowling Estate  
Sometime a bit after chapter 2_

 

Aziraphale was unsure as to how he ended up being the gardener out of the pair of them. It wasn’t like _he_ was the one who was good with plants. Alcohol must have been involved somehow, he thought.

Still, he did his best, without having to invoke too many miracles; the last punishment still weighing heavily on his heart, not to mention his sinuses. The trees and assorted shrubbery seemed to be doing alright and were a verdant, lush green. And, no one had complained directly about his work (or offered any punishment or admonishment), so Aziraphale, in his guise as Brother Francis, carried on.

The Principality was relieved when he discovered that the Dowling’s were taking Warlock to visit his grandparents the following weekend and that all staff would have the weekend off. He was getting a bit tired of the disguise; the teeth were so _terribly_ uncomfortable. He also wanted to spend some time on the flowerbeds without any interference from Warlock (he was a lovely boy, but his questions went on and on and on) or anyone else unencumbered. He had overheard Mrs. Dowling gossiping conspiratorially to Nanny about the roses just the other day, and if that didn’t take the cake, he could see Crowley just standing there _smirking_! 

So, early on a Saturday morning, Aziraphale found himself (as himself) standing in the garden with a cup of tea and a book on gardening, just looking completely flabbergasted. There was really nothing else he could do at this point, as somehow, overnight, the flowerbeds had become a riot of rich colour and splendour. 

He was wondering how exactly this could have happened, when he sensed a movement behind him. Aziraphale didn’t turn expectantly, nor did he move. He knew exactly who was now standing behind him, and how the garden had become a kaleidoscope of brilliance. He merely miracled another cup of tea and held it out as an offering.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Crowley said, taking the mug. “Very reminiscent of Eden.”

“ _I_ had nothing to do with it,” Aziraphale snapped. 

He didn’t turn to look at Crowley, merely regarded him out of the corner of his eye. He could see he had also forgone his disguise, and was dressed as he always was, epitome of current fashion, although the trousers were far tighter than they had any reason to be (not that Aziraphale noticed these things at all, of course). 

“It must be your angelic presssssence,” Crowley teased, hissing. 

Aziraphale turned to look at the demon. “We both very well know that this was your doing, Crowley,” he said irritably. He sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. 

“Geez Angel,” Crowley said defensively. “I was only trying to help.”

Aziraphale huffed in annoyance. “I had it under control. I brought a book,” he said, his voice wavering, as he gestured to the gardening book on the table nearby. He bit down on his lip and frowned.

The angel didn’t have it under control and they both knew it. He was a fairly rubbish gardener. He sighed heavily before taking a sip of tea. They were both silent for a while, listening to the birdsong and insect activity of a garden in the morning.

In those quiet moments, it finally occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley had done this for _him_. The demon could have done a number of things, but instead performed a demonic miracle that was beneficial to him rather than doing nothing at all. 

At this realisation, Aziraphale felt rather a bit overwhelmed; a similar such feeling he had in Berlin in 1941 (and before that in France and before that, oh well you get the picture). Crowley had done something brilliant for him once again, and the angel was left wondering why. He didn’t want to have to consider this, because it meant he’d have to examine his own feelings for Crowley, and denial wasn’t only a river in Egypt.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale finally said. “That was most kind of you.” 

“Wasn’t. Couldn’t have the Dowling’s firing you, now could I?” Crowley questioned, shrugging off the compliment. 

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale replied. 

“We’re supposed to be in this together, cancelling each other out,” Crowley reminded him.

“Well then, I thank you, truly, my dear. It is a very impressive garden.” Aziraphale smiled genuinely at Crowley, hoping that what he could not yet say was there somehow, and that Crowley understood.

Crowley merely sniffed and cocked his head in acknowledgement. They were quiet again for a few minutes before the demon broke the silence. 

“Can I tempt you to some breakfast, Angel?” Crowley asked, eyebrow quirked in question; already knowing how Aziraphale would respond.

“Temptation accomplished, my dear.” Aziraphale said with another pleased grin.


	4. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has time to think about events prior to the world not ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: panic attack

_Three days after the world didn’t end  
Soho_

 

It had been three days since the world didn’t end and Crowley was asleep. He was absolutely shattered after finding Aziraphale’s book shop in flames, imagining his Bentley not to be on fire, stopping time, and having a small role in saving the world. Not to mention changing places with Aziraphale, which was tiring (but a bit fun) in its own right.

After dining at the Ritz, the pair had retired to the book shop, neither of them particularly wanting to be alone. Touches and a few gentle kisses had been shared, now that they both finally felt free from their respective sides. Aziraphale could see that Crowley wanted much more (of which he was entirely amenable to) but not when it looked like the demon was about to fall face first into his wine. He very gently suggested that he get some rest and that he would be here when he awoke. The angel even sat with him as he settled into slumber, just to put Crowley’s mind at ease.

That was two days ago. Given Crowley’s penchant for sleeping, he guessed he might have anywhere from a day or up to a week to wait until Crowley felt recharged enough to re-join the newly saved world.

Therefore, Aziraphale had a lot of time to think. He had taken a partial inventory of his book shop and was delighted in seeing some new tomes on the shelves. This proved to be a decent distraction for the moment. That being said, his mind kept returning to the sleeping demon upstairs in his bed and all the things said demon wanted to do in said bed. With him. And presumably with him without shirt, waistcoat and trousers.

Unable to focus on his books, he made a cup of cocoa to see if that would help settle his anxiety. The words ran through his mind as if on repeat. “Lose the gut. Lose the gut. Lose the gut.” They are only echoed by his own statement to no one of “I’m soft.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t settle at all; his cocoa became cold and long-forgotten. He felt like he could crawl out of his own skin as he paced back and forth, twisting his ring and fidgeting and smoothing down his waistcoat.

Gabriel was right. He was a wreck.

And if Gabriel had noticed his soft appearance, surely Crowley had too. And what would the demon want with him? Crowley was lean and angular and always looked current and trendy, whereas Aziraphale looked like he belonged in another century altogether.

 

 

The following day, Aziraphale was led from his book shop to lunch by a newly awoken and ravenous (for once) Crowley. The last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was eat around the demon in his current anxious and agitated state. It didn’t help that the lobster ravioli at this particular restaurant was a favourite of his (which Crowley also knew) so it would look terribly odd if he ordered a _salad_ or something lighter.

Aziraphale sighed inwardly as he watched Crowley tuck into his own meal with enthusiasm. The demon wasn’t much for eating, but they were both of the opinion that navigating a car on fire from London to Tadfield and stopping time probably both used up a fair amount of energy reserves.

The angel on, the other hand, picked at his ravioli, pushing it around his plate. He had barely managed half of his entrée, when normally he would have been through his plate and whatever Crowley had left. Finally, he pushed the remnants of his meal away and folded his napkin. His inner mantra of being soft was still at the forefront of his mind and it ruined his culinary experience.

Crowley raised both eyebrows over his sunglasses. “Something wrong with your meal, Angel?”

“No, the meal was perfectly fine. Just a bit heavy, that’s all.” Aziraphale fidgeted in his chair and adjusted his waistcoat, not for the first time that afternoon. 

Crowley blinked slowly in disbelief. How long had he been asleep? 

“Shall we get the bill then, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s mouth dropped open in shock. “No dessssert?” He hissed, questioning incredulously.

“No, thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale said tersely as he caught the eye of their server and gestured for the cheque. He also didn’t miss Crowley mouthing ‘What the fuck?’ to himself and wondered if he shouldn’t just miracle himself back to the book shop where he could hide out with his books. And whiskey.

Instead, they began to walk, by some sort of unspoken agreement. Aziraphale felt on terribly on edge and had to forcibly intertwine his fingers to keep from fidgeting, all while being very aware that Crowley was watching every movement. 

They found themselves in the same part of the park where Aziraphale had been berated by Gabriel. The memory of this flashed through his mind instantly, as if he was watching it on film. He broke out in a cold sweat; his vision swam and blurred. He felt what he assumed was nausea, as if he had drunk far more than he ever had before and had forgotten to sober up before passing out. He stumbled on the pavement and found himself being forcibly half-dragged half carried to a nearby bench by Crowley. 

“Angel, what the heaven’s the matter?” Crowley asked worriedly, scanning the park for possible angelic or demonic intervention. However, he couldn’t sense anyone besides Aziraphale. He flung himself down on the bench beside his angel.

Aziraphale was shaking uncontrollably. Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead, and he was biting down on his lip hard, trying to pull himself together. Crowley took one look at him and immediately knew what was happening.

Crowley placed a hand over Aziraphale’s. It was icy to the touch, where normally the angel was warm. “Aziraphale? Can you hear me?”

Still trembling, the principality nodded before breaking down with heaving sobs. He buried his face in his hands, his body slumped over and shoulders shaking. He heard Crowley talking to him but couldn’t make out what he was saying. After a few minutes, he felt something being soft pressed in between his hands which were still covering his face. Crowley had also placed a hand on his back, in the space between where his wings were, which grounded him just enough to feel just a bit calmer.

The sobs finally eased off, and Aziraphale found that Crowley had miracled him up a handkerchief which he gratefully used to wipe his eyes and nose. He looked over at the demon, who was watching him with utmost concern; he had even pushed his sunglasses up on his head. 

“Thadk,” Aziraphale began to say, but instead shook his head and took a moment to blow his nose.

“Thank you, my dear boy. I’m terribly sorry. I have no idea what came over me,” Aziraphale said. He smiled at the demon, but it didn’t quite meet his now reddened and puffy eyes.

“I think you and I both know that’s not the truth, Angel,” Crowley replied quietly. “You just had a panic attack in the park!” He tried to keep his voice calm and even, but it was hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Aziraphale sighed and looked down at the ground, twisting the handkerchief in his hands. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if in prayer. Then, he looked up at Crowley. “Not here. Is that ok?”

Crowley nodded and slithered to his feet before holding a hand out for the angel. Again, by an unspoken agreement, they walked back to Aziraphale’s book shop.

Instead of making tea, as he normally would do at this time of day, Aziraphale went into the small kitchen and came back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured a measure into each, and then sat down next to Crowley on the sofa.

The angel drank down the contents in a mouthful, and then refilled his glass and placed it back down. He folded and unfolded his hands and twisted at the ring on his finger. 

Crowley couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Did something happen while I was asleep?”

Aziraphale gave him a rueful smile. “Not directly, no. I merely had some time to think over events prior to the world not ending.” He paused a moment and took a sip of his drink before continuing.

“It was brought to my attention that I haven’t exactly treated this corporation with the respect that it’s due,” Aziraphale said quietly, sounding like he might break into tears again at any moment.

Crowley blinked several times. He then removed his sunglasses, tossing them carelessly on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. He suddenly had a very good idea as to where this conversation was headed.

“So, tell me Angel, was this from the voice of God? Or the Metatron maybe?”

Aziraphale didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. He looked down at his glass. “No.”

“ _Please_ tell me you haven’t worked yourself up over for days over something that wanker Gabriel said,” Crowley pleaded, despite knowing the answer.

Aziraphale continued to study his drink intently. “He told me I should ‘lose the gut.’” His voice came out very small and it pained Crowley to hear. One of these days that archangel was going to get his comeuppance.

“I’m soft,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice wobbling. Fresh tears cascaded down his face.

Crowley reached for the angel and pulled him close into his arms. Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley’s chest and sobbed for the second time that afternoon. 

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley murmured into the top of Aziraphale’s head. He pressed a kiss into the soft, blonde curls. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”


	5. Crêpes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants some crêpes.

_Two weeks after the world didn’t end  
Soho_

 

Aziraphale left Crowley one morning and went off to have some crêpes on his own. He had asked the sleeping demon to come along but he grumbled and hissed about being tired,1 and promptly fell back into a sleep deep under a pile of blankets in the angel’s bed. 

Normally, the principality would have waited, but he had a book dealer coming around at noon, and he really did have quite a craving for crêpes, so he set off to his preferred Crêperie. When he arrived, he was quite distressed to discover that the restaurant was closed for the owner’s holiday abroad and would return the following week. Downtrodden, miserable and _hungry_ , Aziraphale returned to his shop. 

He grumbled it about so much to Crowley (who he had woken up on his return), that said demon went off in a huff to water his plants, after explaining to Aziraphale that if he really wanted crêpes that badly he could just miracle himself some.

Azirphale did not take too kindly to that response. As the demon left, he mumbled that Crowley just didn’t understand, that miracling them wasn’t the same, before heading back into the recesses of his shop to find whatever book it was that he was meant to be selling to said book dealer.

A few hours, and two cups of comforting cocoa later, Aziraphale felt bad about snapping at Crowley. He hadn’t meant what he said; he was just irritated and hungry and took it out on his demon. 

Aziraphale smiled at that; his demon, _his_ dear boy, the love of his very, very long life. It was so freeing and so _wonderous_ to be able to unreservedly express his thoughts and feelings about Crowley. He hadn’t felt so genuinely happy in nearly six thousand years; it was like flying. It was like he was finally _home_. Grinning stupidly in love, he picked up the phone to call the person that he now could call home. For when he was with Crowley, that was where he was, be it the book shop or on a bench in St. James’ Park.

Crowley picked up but instead of saying hello to Aziraphale, he continued on the tirade he had been on, yelling. “Oh, for _someone’s_ sake, why can’t you just _grow better_?” He snarled angrily.

Aziraphale jerked in surprise. He couldn’t have Crowley abusing his plants that way. He closed his eyes, and with a snap of his fingers, suddenly appeared beside Crowley, in his flat. 

His eyes widened in shock, when he realised that he had not materialised into Crowley’s plant room, but rather his kitchen. The demon was smiling smugly to himself in front of a table set for two, each place setting with a plate of warm, fragrant, sweet crêpes. An extra bowl of strawberries and cream was set at Aziraphale’s seat, and a bottle of champagne was chilling in a bucket of ice.

“Oh, you wily old serpent!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He couldn’t stop the absolute joy that was now radiating from him, filling the room. 

Aziraphale looked at the crêpes and then back at Crowley. “Crowley, did you make these yourself?” He asked, his voice almost a whisper. He was in awe; his thoughts were rushing loudly in his ears and all he could hear was love, love, _love_.

Crowley nodded, and then looked down at the floor. He shoved his hands in his pockets, nervously. “I know you really wanted crêpes, so. . ..” 

“Oh my _dearest_ ,” Aziraphale said, his voice wavering and filled with emotion. He took a step forward and pulled Crowley into an embrace, fully ready to never let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: I’ll leave you to your deductions as to why Crowley might be rather tired.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you everyone who has left kudos and comments. They do mean so terribly much to me, and I am very grateful for all of them. Just one chapter to go now!


	6. What the water gave me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the end of the world that wasn't, Crowley has nightmares.

_3 months after the end of the world that wasn’t_  
South Downs, United Kingdom  
A cottage near the sea 

 

Crowley was dreaming.

 

_Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Where the Heaven are you? You idiot. Aziraphale! For Go—for Sa—for SOMEBODY’s SAKE, where ARE you?_

_Fire and flame rise around him, and he is on the verge of tears._

_Aziraphale?_

 

Crowley woke with a gasp, legs tangled in the duvet. He was damp with sweat, his face salty with tears. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Looking over, he saw that Aziraphale appeared to be sound asleep. He had not disturbed him. He let out a breath, soundlessly.

The demon ran a hand across his face and slithered out of bed. He stumbled into the kitchen, his legs feeling weak. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, he found a bottle of wine; the only sound from the faint tinkling of glass against glass. He then quietly slipped out the front door.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Frowning, Aziraphale sat up in bed. He was unsure as to how much longer he could watch Crowley be tortured like this in his sleep. He tried to approach him about it when it happened before, but Crowley had brushed it off and pushed him away.

After all they’ve been through together over the millennia, after everything. . . Crowley still kept a part of himself closed off. Aziraphale sat fretfully, waiting for his demon to return. After an hour, he had yet to do so. Finally, Aziraphale grabbed his dressing gown and got out of bed, following in Crowley’s footsteps.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Crowley had made his way down to the beach that was down the hill from their new cottage. He liked the accessibility of the ocean; when the house was quiet, he could hear the waves crashing onshore. It was soothing somehow to hear the ocean, even when it echoed what he felt deep within his heart.

He sat down on the sandy beach; the summer night still warm. The sky, midnight blue above him, was resplendent with stars. The waves were merely lapping on the shoreline, a soft soothing sound and Crowley tried to let it work itself into his veins, gliding, calming him after his nightmare. The wine helped too; bottle now half-gone and his lips stained with red.

He leaned back on his elbows so he could look up at the sky and the stars. He remembered what it was like when he made them so long ago; still shocked he could do so. Not everything was taken from him when he fell.

Not like he thought everything had been taken from him that night the book shop burned down around him. He wished he could rid himself of that memory, that moment when he arrived. The moment his heart broke into two distinct pieces. The moment his soul fled from his body at the speed of light. The moment he could no longer feel his Angel.

The fire roared around him- all of Aziraphale’s treasured books burning as if they were nothing more than kindling. The heat was overwhelming, yet he screamed and searched and prayed.

Oh, did he ever _pray_. He didn’t care if hell knew and condemned him; the world was about to end! So, he prayed to Her and hoped, _pleaded_ that his prayers would be answered. But there was only the roar of the flames and breaking glass and water from the fire service. He grabbed the nearest book, a keepsake, a remembrance and fled.

And now? Even though neither Heaven nor Hell had come calling, Crowley was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if they figured out the stunt they pulled or decided that their very presence on earth was problematic still. He would rather die than lose Aziraphale again. 

Sobbing, Crowley sat up, pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, making himself as small as possible. Despite the warm evening, he was chilled now, only dressed in a black silk vest and pyjama bottoms. He dug his toes into the sand as he sobbed, tears running unreservedly down his face.

As Aziraphale approached the beach, he could see Crowley curled into himself and he could hear him sobbing. He all but ran the remaining distance between them and flung himself down behind the demon.

Crowley was suddenly aware of a gust of wind, and he was then quickly enveloped by Aziraphale’s arms, followed by his wings wrapping protectively around him. If anything, this just made him bawl even harder; deep wracking sobs that shuddered through his body.

“Oh Crowley. My dear, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured into the back of the demon’s neck. He kissed the soft skin there gently and began to rub warmth back into Crowley’s arms, his wings still wrapped around, cocooning him.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, his voice gravelly from crying. “You were gone. I thought you were _dead_ ,” he keened hoarsely. 

He felt Aziraphale stiffen at the realisation of what Crowley had experienced the day the world didn’t end and then exhale, gasping as if he’d been punched; he had been metaphorically. Crowley was pulled closer and tighter to his angel, and he felt him quiver behind him.

Crowley turned as best he could in Aziraphale’s arms and saw how distraught the angel was at this; tears welling up in those azure blue eyes. He reached up to brush them away. 

Aziraphale’s hand came to cover Crowley’s, squeezing it tight. Seconds later, they were holding each other, crying, not knowing where one began and the other ended. 

“Oh, my dearest, why didn’t you tell me? You needn’t have suffered alone, my love,” Aziraphale said after a few moments had passed. He wanted to shower Crowley in as much love and adoration as possible. The angel kissed his forehead, his eyes, his lips; tasting the salt from the tears and from the sea.

Crowley shrugged from beneath the embrace. “Thought the nightmares’d stop,” he said, which was the opposite of what he had thought for months. He was afraid to tell Aziraphale because he didn’t want to him to leave. He was terrified, even after the end of the world, and their side, and the Ritz and the bloody _cottage_ , that Aziraphale would leave.

Aziraphale was the other half of Crowley’s soul. He had known this for 6000 years and counting. He couldn’t bear it if he left. He wouldn’t survive it if he died.

_Love me, hold me, please stay._

Aziraphale pulled slightly away, just enough to look at him, his eyes still damp, but clear. He gave Crowley a sad smile and the demon had to look away. He stared away into the middle distance.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly.

“I was afraid you’d leave,” Crowley whispered into the night.

“Oh, my _dear_. My dear, dear Crowley. I should have been braver so many years ago. You should have known how much I cared for you, how much I loved you. How much I love you.” Aziraphale said, wistfully. “I am terribly sorry, my love.”

Crowley felt the angel caressing his face, running his soft fingers along his cheekbones. He looked up and was brought into the most tender kiss they possibly had ever shared. And Crowley felt the tendrils of the nightmare that had still been clinging on, fall gently away and out to sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you everyone who has been reading along and commenting. It is truly appreciated. Thank you.


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